Jigsaw
by Glass Heart
Summary: The people that she loves are dead. LIke a jigsaw puzzle, she is broken. Scattered. And searching for someone, or something to put her back together. warning: self injury, implied incest
1. Prologue Shattered

Ginny awakens with the first light of day. The dream slips away as she opens her eyes. His touch slides away, leaving her skin cold.

She looks around the room that is so familiar. The orange walls, hung with Chudley Cannons posters.

His room.

But he will never be in it again.

She pulls on her long, scarlet dressing gown, and tiptoes out. No one in her family has realized that she sleeps in his room from time to time. That her nightmares have returned. And she is in no hurry for them to find out.

No sound is coming from the kitchen. It is completely empty. She remembers all the mornings when she would walk in to find her mother in front of the stove, frying eggs as pancakes flipped themselves.

"Mom," she calls," I'm making breakfast, would you like anything?"

She pictures her mother, laying in her bed. Her once plump face now gaunt and worn. Clinging to a picture of her husband, sobbing her heart out. The sound of her sobs is haunting to Ginny.

"No, thank you, Ginny, dear," comes the weak, weary reply.

She returns to the kitchen, flips on the stove, and gets out eggs and milk.

She reaches for a plate. It falls out of her grasp and drops to the floor, shattering.

Staring at the broken pieces on the tile, Ginny drops to her knees and sobs.


	2. Chapter 1: Ribbons and Lace

Chapter 1: Ribbons and Lace

Fred and George arrive on the morning of September 1, ready to escort Ginny to Kings Cross. She stands in front of the vanity in her bedroom, listening to them scuttling about below her. She examines her reflection. She carefully ties a black ribbon in her red hair. It matches the rest of hr clothes. All black, like a woman in mourning should wear.

When they reach Kings Cross, they walk in silence to the barrier between platforms nine and ten. There, she turns to face her brothers.

She feels as though she should say something. Like she should thank them, for everything they had done for her this summer. Without them, she would have run out of money a long time ago. But her tongue is thick in her mouth, her throat is dry, and her voice is nowhere to be found.

Instead, she hugs each of them in turn.

"Don't worry about anything," Fred says, patting her gently on the back. "Just take care of yourself, Gin, and we'll take care of everything else."

"Yea, Gin, try and have a good time this term."

She doesn't tell them that that seems highly unlikely. Instead, she disappears into the brick barrier.

She finds an empty compartment and settles down, watching out the window as students and their families say goodbye. She feels her heart wrench slightly, looking at all the fathers giving their daughters hugs, holding them tightly. She tears her gaze from the window and looks down at her hands.

She slides a hand under the edge of her sleeve, begins inching the fabric upward –

"I keep asking Father to send me to Durmstrang, but Mother won't allow it. She can't bear to be away from me."

She knows that voice. And it is getting closer. Footsteps are approaching, stopping as they reach the door to her compartment. She tenses up, letting her hand drop.

She closes her eyes and silently prays that they pass her by.

But, less than a moment later, the door slides open. And there stands Draco Malfoy, along with his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, and that total cow Pansy Parkinson, who follows Malfoy like a puppy.

"Well, what have we here?" Malfoy's voice is positively gleeful, his cold eyes glittering. "The littlest Weasley. And all alone. Where's your big brother, Weaslette?"

Ginny's eyes flash, she clenches her jaw, both against tears and against the urge to hex Malfoy into oblivion.

He laughs. "Oh, I almost forgot. Your idiotic brother got himself killed."

"He was _not_ idiotic," Ginny says, her voice low and cold. "He, along with the rest of my family, died a hero's death."

"That's where they went wrong. Trying to play the hero _is_ the idiotic thing."

She doesn't respond, but curls her hands into fists, her nails leaving crescent moons in her palms.

"Now," Malfoy begins, sinking into a seat, "Get out of our compartment."

"It's not your compartment. There was no one in it when I got here."

"We sit in this compartment every year, Weasel. You obviously have no respect for tradition."

She shrugs and picks at her cuticles. "Times change." And she doesn't move.

She focuses her attention out the window again as the train starts to move. Now there is only wilderness to admire, nothing to make her heart ache any worse.

Her wrist is itching. Forgetting momentarily about the other people in the compartment with her, or thinking they won't notice, she pushes up her sleeve and scratches the offending area.

It is only up for a moment, but that is long enough for Draco to get a glimpse of the dried blood on her skin.


	3. Chapter 2: The Truth About Broken Glass

Chapter 2: The Truth About Broken Glass

The Sorting and feast seem to drag on that night. She sees Harry and Hermione sitting together, both looking somber; sees the empty place where her brother used to sit. She sits as far away as she can, ending up beside Colin Creevey. He knows, of course. Everyone knows. But she keeps her eyes on her hands, a clear sign that she does not want to talk. And he doesn't push her.

But on her way to the Gryffindor tower, Hermione grabs her arm. She turns around to face her and sees a face lined with concern and grief.

"Ginny, Dumbledore wants to see you."

She gives Hermione blank look. "What for?" She, of course, knows what for.

Hermione drops her eyes. "I'll take you there. I know the password to his office."

"Do you know why I asked you here, Miss Weasley?"

Ginny looks at her shoes. Black boots that lace all the way up to her knees. She finds herself very interested in the laces.

"I asked you here because I feel you may need someone to talk to."

Again, he is met with silence.

Professor Dumbledore sighs and slides his half-moon spectacles higher onto his nose.

"Your father – and your brothers – were good men. They died fighting for the cause. Your brother, Ron, died defending his two best friends. I think he wouldn't have wanted it any other way. "

She swallows a sob and nods.

"I encourage you to confide in someone. Anyone. Perhaps someone from your own house. Perhaps a teacher. Even me. But bottling up your emotions can be very dangerous."

She does not tell him that, to her, it seems as though she has no other choice. She has never had an intimate friendship with anyone at Hogwarts, aside from Ron, and occasionally Hermione. But Ron is dead and Hermione is just as torn apart as she is, so how can Ginny expect her to console her?

Dumbledore offers her a lemon drop, but she declines, even though she has eaten nothing today.

And he wishes her a good night.

She stands in the shower, letting the hot water rain down on her cold skin, warming it. It pounds against her flesh, a gentle massage. She braces herself against the wall with her arms, closing her eyes against the current of water. It is then that her eyes fall to the skin on the underside of her wrist.

There, several thin gashes run across her arm. They are only surface wounds, not very deep at all. But they contrast starkly with the pale white pallor of her flesh.

_The pieces of the plate lay before her as she kneels on the ground. The tears are finally subsiding, leaving her eyes stinging and her cheeks tight. _

_She looks down at the broken glass._

_Not fully realizing what she is doing, her fingers close around one of the shards. _

_She lifts it, poises it above her arm._

_She pushes it down and drags it across the flesh of her wrist, and watches as blood blossoms to the surface._

Ginny is pulling her robes out of her trunk the next morning when she hears a small _chink_ sound. She looks wildly around, before her eyes settle on several small, silver razor blades, laying on the scarlet carpet.

She remembers finding it. The day after the broken-plate incident. She had been searching through her father's old collection of Muggle objects when she had stumbled upon a pile of the thin things. Glancing around nervously, she had put them in her pocket.

Now, she stuffs them hastily into a pair of green socks that the house elf Dobby had given her, hoping no one else had noticed them.

But she keeps one out, feeling its coolness against her palm. She slides it into the pocket of her robes and straightens up like nothing has happened.


	4. Chapter 3: Watching My Life Spill To The...

Chapter 3: Watching My Life Spill To The Floor

When she arrives in the Great Hall for breakfast, Colin is already there. When she sits down, he hands her a schedule with her name at the top.

"We have Snape first," he says, making a face. "With the sixth year Slytherins."

Ginny says nothing, though she feels he expects a negative reaction. She simply folds the paper and slides it into her pocket, then takes a bite of toast. It feels dry in her throat. Difficult to swallow. She sets it down again and looks at her plate. Nothing arouses an appetite. Not much has since . . .

She stands and throws her school bag over her shoulder.

"Where are you going?"

"Class," she answers shortly.

Colin looks at her like she is insane, and as she walks away, she hears him mutter "nutters" under his breath.

She walks towards the dungeons, her head low. When she hears a familiar and irritating voice, she swears under her breath.

Sure enough, Draco Malfoy is sauntering her way, having just exited the Slytherin common room, and obviously on his way to breakfast. He is on his own, possibly for the first time in Hogwarts history.

As he sees her, he smirks.

"Well, Weaslette, we meet again."

"So I see, Ferret Boy."

His eyes flash. "All alone, again, I see."

"And you. I thought those goons were an attachment. Did you have them surgically removed?"

"You wound me, Red. I am perfectly capable of traveling these dark halls alone."

"I'm sure," she mutters. Then, rolling her eyes, she says, "I'm late," and attempts to bustle past him.

He steps in front of her, his eyes glittering.

"Get out of my way, Malfoy," she says, spitting his surname like a curse.

"Temper, temper. You Weasleys are all the same. It must be all that red hair, addling your brains."

She feels anger rise in her chest and raises her hand to smack him.

He catches her wrist in his hand, his grip as strong as iron.

"You'd better be careful, Red. If you step too far over the line, there's no going back."

She wrenches herself free of his grasp, throwing him a daggering look. He laughs cruelly and walks away before she can say another word.

Not that she wanted to, anyway.

By the end of the day, it feels as if there is a tiny insect living beneath the flesh of her arms. It makes her skin itch and crawl, and no matter how much she scratches, it will not cease.

And though Ginny tries to deny it, tries to tell herself she will not do it again, she knows what she must do to make it stop.

The razor blade feels like an anvil in her pocket.

She paces the corridors, searching for a place to go. The Gryffindor tower is too crowded. The showers not private enough.

Finally, she catches a glimpse of an empty classroom with the door slightly ajar. The Muggle Studies classroom. Glancing around to see that no one is watching, she slips inside and closes the door behind her.

The room is pitch dark. There are no windows through which the moonlight can shine. There is only the thick blackness of the night, all around her.

She finds she likes it this way. She feels as though it is proper for the occasion. Fitting, somehow, for the act she is about to commit.

She slides to the floor, closes her eyes, and replays the day's low points in her head. She wants to be sure it deserves what she is about to do.

Potions had been a disaster. Setting the theme for the rest of the day. What had been one of her best subjects seemed to be completely above her head. She could not concentrate on any of the instructions, and her truth drought had smelled strongly of rotten eggs.

The worst, though, had begun at lunch, when she had found Harry waiting for her outside the Great Hall.

"Hey, Gin," he had said, clearly uncomfortable.

She had looked at him, but not said a word.

"Look, I was just checking to see . . . To see how you're doing," he said, looking down at his feet. "I know you were really close to – to all of them, and I know this has to be hard. It's not easy for me, either . . ."

He had trailed off and raised his eyes to hers. Those brilliant, emerald green eyes that seemed to peer right through you. And she knew, she knew what was coming. One of his famous this-is-all-my-fault tirades. She couldn't handle one of them right now, even if part of her felt it really _was_ his fault.

So she said, "I'm fine" and forced a smile to prove it, and he, satisfied, had walked away.

The worse had turned to unbearable when Luna Lovegood caught up with her on her way out of Transfiguration.

"Do you miss your brother?" she had asked.

Ginny hadn't answered straight away. She had merely stood there, her brows drawn together and her head buzzing from the impact of such a simple and powerful question.

"Well, do you?"

She had opened her mouth to respond. She had felt the words nearly springing from the tip of her tongue. But they broke under the weight of a sob that it took all her strength to swallow. And she had walked away.

Now, the question rings in her mind.

_Well, do you?_

"Yes," she says aloud. "I miss him so much it's killing me inside."

She chokes on the last words, and, without warning, tears begin pouring down her cheeks.

Shaking slightly, she pushes back her sleeves and pulls the razor blade from her pocket.

In one swift motion, she draws the blade across her skin. Slowly once, pressing down only lightly. Then, pressing slightly harder. Then, angrily swiping it as fast and hard as she can, so that the skin splits open almost a centimeter wide, and it takes the blood at least a minute to fully rise to the surface.

She does this again, and again. Varying pressure and speed. Her breath coming in short gasps and her tears flowing in angry torrents.

And when her tears begin to subside, when the anger and pain begin to ebb away, she lets the blade drop from her hand, now limp and tired at her side. She watches as the dark blood drips down her wrist, over the palms of her hands, onto the floor. And as the blood flows, her energy leaves her, and she is suddenly very exhausted.

And so she sits on the floor, perfectly still, watching the blood making patterns like spider webs over her flesh, and a small smile lights her worn, tired, and tear stained face.


End file.
